


Freedom Isn't Always Free

by Fluffybunz



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Altean Lance (Voltron), Angst, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Gen, Intelligence Seller Pidge, Lance seriously needs a hug, Minor Injuries, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 05:18:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15065987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluffybunz/pseuds/Fluffybunz
Summary: Lance was the last surviving Altean who was captured by a Galra slaving company and shown off as the poster boy. Pidge was a simple earthling who dug in too deep with her search for her brother and was forced to work with an intel gathering agency. Their stories interwine in a way that makes them both question themselves and their purpose.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Low Key Pidgance, just if you squint, just my personal shipping sinking in, not canon to the story in any way!  
> Mentions of PTSD and slavery are very prevalent, if you do not wish to read any if that, I'd suggest you not read this fic. This was not proofread as thoroughly as I typically do, so errors are definitely there, but I will try and fix as many as I can.

It was musty and stunk like a cocktail of bodily fluids in the tiny wooden shack he and three other 'exotic' bodies were held. Lance grumbled, his knees pressed up to his face, arms wrapped around his legs. His royal garments had been stripped from him, only a simple leather loincloth protecting himself from the elements, leaving his Altean markings on full display.

Of course, that's what his captors probably wished for. The last living Altean, and he was royalty no less, was in their possession! Imagine the amount of money that could bring in. Many people dreamed of having a spritely little Altean maid, and now that the last one alive was held in captivity, the Galra were scrambling to gather funds.

Lance sighed, running his fingers through his white hair, chains around his wrists clanking as he did so. He cringed a bit when he heard someone mention the word Altean outside the shack. He couldn't decipher more since the tongue they were speaking was Galran, but he could at least understand that.

Whoever it was that said that, though, had a terrible accent. An accent unlike he had ever heard before, a surprising novelty. People from near and far had come to ogle at him, so he had gotten a full extensive look at a lot of the species the universe inhabited.

The door creaked, and a honey colored iris peeked through, and a pale hand touched the inside of the door. He backed away slightly, cowering. He was prideful, yes, but when his could-be slaver is staring him in the eye, he lost his princely confidence and swagger. The loud Galran said something in his gravelly voice, and the mysterious person nodded and walked in the room, giving Lance a chance to look at them more clearly.

They looked fairly feminine, save their hair, which was cut erratically, almost as if it was in a hurry. Perhaps it had gotten stuck or caught in something, Lance noted to himself, noticing the split ends on almost each strand of hair. They were donning glasses of some kind, and one of the lenses was cracked. The person was wearing a plain black overcoat that draped down the knees and a hood, which was understandable. If anyone was caught in an neighborhood such as this one, it would tarnish their reputation irrepairably, according to the mumblings of some Altean language based chatter.

The person spoke in fluent Altean, something Lance was shocked to hear, especially after all the decaphoebs he had been in cryosleep. "Prince Lance. I am part of a data collecting agency in Junabeleet in the Kalon System." Their expression was stern, arms crossed. "Please understand I am not here to harm you, though I may act like it. The dealers get suspicious." They said, subtly tilting their head to the burly Galra behind them.

"I have bought you out of captivity, and I shall transport you to an outpost near here. I cannot say where. Altean may be a dead language, but names are not." They said, face softening briefly, before turning around sharply, pulling the hood over their face. They said something in Galran, to which the burly Galra trader walked towards Lance, making him flinch involuntarily. The Galra, whose name Lance figured to be Krilan, yelled and pulled Lance's white hair, causing strands to pull out into the bigger man's palm. The other poor captives merely looked down in dismay and apathy for the whole situation.

Krilan went behind Lance to grab a leather harness, and hooked it to his blood stained chest. That was the harness they would put around him whenever they'd parade him through the black market, something he despised and never thought would happen once a prospect of freedom burst in. Though, the person said he could trust them, what choice did he have? It was certainly better than being stuck in the chintzy, infection ridden shack.

Speaking of the person, or, rather agent; Krilan handed them the reins, something the person took with a bit of hesitance. Lance took this as a good omen. This meant this agent hadn't broken down completely, had morals. They had to be truthful then, right? He was broke out of his thought by a soft pull of the harness. The agent said something in Galran, and then translated it to Altean. "Come." Lance nodded, standing up shakily, breath hitched. His legs almost buckled under his weight, which was close near to nothing; Lance felt like a juniberry leaf. One tiny hiss of wind, and he felt he would blow away. His chest ached, the Galra trader had tightened the straps on the harness too hard, and it was digging into his scars, some of which were drawing blood. He stumbled forward, nearly falling into the agents body, before regaining balance and stumbling forwards again. It was an excruciating walk out of the isolated area where the trader dwelled, and Lance could feel the holes in his back where Krilan was staring at him. Luckily, they had just made it out of eyeshot of the disgruntled Galran.

The agent ahead of him broke the silence, still looking forward. "The outpost name is Kevillan, near the Huntingrell Nebula. It takes a good thirty doboshes to get there, but it's better than staying here." They then looked behind them, stopping and allowing Lance to walk closer to them. "May I take your harness off?" They asked, seeming to notice the hesitant distance Lance stood from them. Lance shook his doubts away and nodded pathetically, deciding to trust them. Once the harness straps were off his bloodied chest, and his markings were on full display, Lance groaned in pain, as the wounds were allowed to be exposed to the atmosphere. The agent continued on, not perturbed. "I have sanitation supplies to help clean your wounds up, but we'd better get moving, it's almost sundown here." They said, putting the bloodied harness on their shoulder. They turned around, stoppung when they heard Lance softly speak indiscernably. They turned back around in confusion. "What?"

"What's y-" Lance sputtered, hacking up blood before continuing. "Name?" He asked, pathetically wiping up the blood off his lips. The agent paused for a moment before turning around.

"Pidge. That's all you need to know right now. Your safety and psyche stableness is all of importance. Let's go." Lance considered the odd name, while bumbling forwards, right leg limping due to whipping scars.

He hoped Pidge was telling the truth. He hoped he was free.

But that's not what they had said... Was it?


	2. The Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pidge and Lance make it to the transport carrier, and board it to Kivillan Outpost. Lance asks some personal questions about Pidge, and learns something that changes his outlook on not only her, but her organization.

Lance cursed whatever unholy god had made this particular planet have not one, but two stars give off heat. It was winter, and yet he was baking from the UV rays. Altean seasons were fairly mild, and though their skin was flexible and moldable, it was not made to withstand temperature. Lance used to care about his complexion, far too much to the members of the Altean court, as his skin routines were often boisterous and fairly expensive. Now, he would be in pure ectasy by just being lightly sprinkled with some cold water. He skin was caked with dried blood and sweat.

The only saving grace was that his markings seemed unfazed, something Lance prided himself in. While most others' markings faded or blended in after a certain period of time, Lance's was still a brilliant blue.

The agent's skin was pale, lighter than his. The hood had come off, and so had the overcoat. He supposed the heat had gotten to them as well. He found out they was actually a she, or at least assumed that. Her chest was a bit more defined than a normal Altean's would be, and the feminine face shape gave off the vibes of being a female, but he didn't dare make rash assumptions. Unless they explicitly said it, he resolved to keep quiet about the ordeal and continue being ambigious.

Their ears were flat, and, in his opnion, hideous. He could hear his sister Allura distastfully damning the dreaded things, as she was so always critical of how other species looked. Lance felt a shockwave of pain and guilt run through him. Where had her cryopod taken off to, he did not know. He was off on a tutoring lesson on a nearby planet, and was placed in an emergency sleeping pod. He assumed in the Castle of Lions, with his mother and father, but where it could have gone; that was another matter.

At some point in his contemplation, Lance stopped moving. Pidge snapped their fingers loudly and looked heatedly at the Altean. "We don't have all day, we have to make it before sundown. Pijanios wake from hibernation then, and then we'll be sitting ducks."

The word ducks was in a different language, as ducks were not an Altean animal. Lance looked at Pidge confusedly and tried to pronounce the word. "D-oo-ks? What are those?"

Pidge stiffened up and turned back around, their back to Lance. "Nothing, let's go."

Lance relented, knowing that whatever these mythical ducks were, Pidge didn't want to bring them up in conversation. He was still puzzled about why they'd turn into the creatures, and why the fact that they'd be sitting would matter, but he figured he'd find out soon enough. Perhaps it was intel agent lingo, and that's why Pidge was hesitant. But what could it mean...?

Pidge pulled out a black remote of sorts and pushed the middle button on the top. Suddenly a transporter ship appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Lance was startled, and jumped back, nearly slipping on the sandy surface beneath him. Pidge had a ghost of a smile on their face, for just a moment. They apparently caught their expression, and forced it back to stoicness. "This is the transporter that will take you to the outpost. It was cloaked, so no one would find suspicion in a random transporter on the middle of the Jaharkalan Desert. Come on." Pidge waved their hand and opened a side door, revealing the compartment in the inside. Lance stepped into the room gingerly, and took in the sorroundings.

The actual ship was made of metal, and while it looked structually sound outside, wires and various pipes were exposed. Lance felt an inkling of unsafety, but considering the way Pidge nonchalantly flopped down in the pilot seat, he figured it must at least be functional.

He was about to sit down on a crate when Pidge yelled at Lance in an unfamiliar language. Lance stopped and stood up in confusion. Pidge sighed, and translated calmly. "That crate has radioactive material in it. Don't sit there." They motioned to another crate next to the pilot's seat. "Sit here." Lance looked scaredly at the crate, in awe that he almost made such a fatal mistake. He then walked over to the crate they motioned to, and carefully sat down. He looked around, noticing the sheer amount of clutter this ship seemed to hold. Most of it was pieces of metal and wiring, though there was also bags of snacks and... Was that a binder?

Lance looked at Pidge again, noticing the feminine qualities of not only their features, but their tone. Even the way they sat clued into that they once wore dresses. Lance couldn't not ask anymore. "Are you a girl?" He asked bluntly.

The ship was silent, save for the rumble of the engine that Pidge was trying to revive. Pidge looked at Lance sharply and hissed. "No. And don't ask again, especially once we reach the outpost." Pidge looked around the dash, frantically, perhaps for a microphone bug.

"Sorry, sorry. I just noticed your, binder... Wait, so you're trans?" Pidge put her head up against the dash, her hands clenched.

"Prince Lance, I told yo-"

"Call me Lance." Lance interrupted them. "I don't like all that mushy royal name stuff." Pidge rolled their eyes.

"Fine, Lance. I don't particularly trust you enough, at this point, to disclose the meaning of that garment, and I will kick you out of the cockpit if you don't stop asking me about it." Pidge bluntly stated, the rumble of the newly fired up engine roaring behind them.

Lance was about to say more when Pidge shushed him. "This whole cockpit could be bugged for routine tests by my agency. So please be less inclined to get me in trouble."

Pidge pushed the pedals and the ship rose, giving a wheeze as it did, to which Pidge grimaced. They mumbled something under her breath in the same language as they had previously, and Lance was struck by curiousity, once again.

"What's that language you're speaking?" He asked, arms on his knees, his body hunched over. Pidge, eyes still on the road, replied, "English. It's my native language."

Lance humphed, trying to run through his brain any potential lessons on the language. His father had taught him many langauges for diplomacy reasons. He was in the beginning of learning Galran when they attacked all of a sudden.

"You wouldn't know it. It originates from Earth. My home planet." They seemed to be more comfortable, and their guard was let down. "It's on the other edge of the known universe." They sombered, lost within some sort of distant memory. Lance asked gingerly, "What species are you?"

"Human." They replied. Lance ran the new foreign word through his head. "Hoo-man." He said aloud, testing the word. "Odd. So you aren't Earthian?" He asked.

Pidge shook their head. "Earth is fairly primitive. We thought that there was no other sentient life out here, save for us. My bro-" They paused, their stoic demeanor seeming to take control. "Nevermind. We're twenty doboshes away, soon you'll be transferred to an interrogation team for questioning."

"Interrogation? I didn't do anything wrong!" Lance cried, incredulous. He thought Pidge was his rescuer, his savior? Why was he being interrogated?

"You are the last living Altean. The Galra destroyed the whole planet decaphoebs ago. You are the last link to Altea culture. We need to make sure we can perserve it." They said, facial expression cold, yet still soft. "We aren't the bad guys here."

Lance grumbled, crossing his arms.

"Sounds like you're taking me in to be a mueseum exhibit." He said grumpily.

Pidge groaned, rubbing their temple. "You will be let go after questioning and relocated to a safe home in an agency sponsored colony, so you cannot be enslaved again. No more questions." They said. "It'll be explained to you once we make it to the outpost."

"And how long will that take me?"

"Now." Pidge replied, gesturing to a floating ship. "That is the Kivillan outpost. The nebula is over there." They said, pointing to a colorful mass of stars and other small celestial bodies. "Radiation is high, so don't try to leave here with just a space suit, unless you want stage five cancer immediately."

They docked in an open space near the side of the ship, and Pidge opened the door. "Luckily, the outpost has radiation blockers, so parking here will prevent illness." Lance stood up shakily, his legs asleep. He didn't know what was coming, or how they'd treat him.

He'd find out soon enough.


	3. Chapter 3: The Passing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pidge and Lance enters the outpost.  
> Pidge reflects about what led her to this position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for updating late, real life is a thing and I couldn't update. This chapter is really short because I felt I should get something updated! The next chapters should be longer and more action packed! Thank you for sticking through with my terrible scheduling!

Pidge helped Lance out of the cockpit and onto the metal landing dock. Lance looked around in awe, and partial fear. Pidge also detected slight ambivalence from the prince, which was forseeable. After all, for all he knew, she could be ready to ship him off to some far away concentration camp without his say-so. This was the primary fear of many of the inductees to the program she shipped to the outpost, and she was ready to deal with it. Put on an inoocent smile and try to calm their fears with reassuring words about freedom.

She didn't actually know where Lance would go. All she knew was that the cargo would be taken to housing for perserverance from threats. Not much info crossed her path, no matter how much she tried to play up her job. She was a mere postwoman, carrying the cargo back to her superiors. It was emotionally tiring, and she hoped she would get promoted soon. The higher she got on the scale of stature in the intel community, the better information she got. Perhaps some regarding Matt...

She shook the muddled thoughts out of her head as she pulled up her tablet, and hooking it the entrance door of the outpost. It was a security measure. Only those with the tablets and the correct retina scan could enter, save for the cargo, which were monitored within darkened rooms on the outside perimeter of the outpost.

She could feel Lance's curious eyes peering behind her back as she scanned her retina. This inductee was certainly curious, that was for sure. Especially with the binder situation.

It wasn't that Pidge was ashamed of being a female, or had transgender feelings about herself, not at all. However, the agency had assumed she was a boy when she ended up on an outpost near the Febulon System after crash landing a Garrison ship. She had figured the aliens had the same gender roles as humans, and let them believe it. Men typically were placed in higher rankings in society, no matter how unfair and sexist it might seem. This agency, she later found, was extremely non-discriminating towards gender, but she feared revealing herself. Telling the agency she had lied to them when she enrolled... That would be a fatal mistake. Who knows what would become of her after that? The agency made it morbidly clear it was not afraid to terminate miscreants. They had public executions in the employee lounges. Most were simple injections, but if the executioner was having a particularly bad day, well... Pidge felt bad for the janitor who had to clean the mess up.

The door whisked open, and Pidge turned around. "You first. I'll transfer you to the office, and the intel officers will take it from there." Lance shifted from foot to foot nervously, and Pidge sighed exasperatedly. "Look. You'll be okay. I wouldn't bring you here if I didn't know that." That was a bull faced lie, and Pidge knew it. She felt a bit guilty, but scoring the last living Altean, and royalty no less? It was a guarenteed promotion, and one step closer to Matt. At that point, that was all that mattered.

They silently walked through the blandly colored corridors before reaching a small office. She walked up to the desk and signed some forms, turning over Lance to the agency for good, and called the officers. As Lance was led towards the questioning office, (with much questioning from the young prince himself,) Pidge leaned against the doorway and watched them turn a corner. She hoped what she was doing was right, Lance seemed okay, even if a tad obnoxious. Though her morals were a factor, her family was the biggest factor.

And that overrides even the worst guilt


End file.
